


Sand and Steel

by Shanaya91



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:36:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shanaya91/pseuds/Shanaya91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is said some lives are linked across time and distance, connected by an ancient calling that echos through the ages. Some people are destined to meet and sometimes fall in love with other.  </p><p>Sansa always wanted to marry a knight or a prince. Now she's going to get her a chance. She's betrothed to the warrior prince of Persia. Will this broken northern lady find love and a family of her own in harsh  Essosi  landmass?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this story must be a bit of a surprise to you all. I got this idea while watching POP for the second time.  
> I made some differences to merge the two stories,  
> This is a post GOT, post ASOIAF, post POP story.  
> Prince Dastan saved the world from destruction with help of Princess Tamina but the new AU princess refused to marry the man who broke the walls of her holly city saying her people would never accept it.  
> Princess Tamina married Prince Garsiv making Dstan once again a bachelor prince.  
> Meanwhile in Westeros Queen Dany won the war with the help of northern forces under Jon Snow's rule. She's now the Queen of Seven Kingdoms with Jon(now a Targ ) as her king consort.  
> Persia, in this fan fiction, is a powerful empire that stretched across far Essos.

 

 

 

 

_ SANSA POV _

She was a Highborn Lady. Born, bred and meticulously trained. Her deportment was flawless, her speech impeccable and her manners unimpeachable. The image she presented was one of youth, confidence and grace all wrapped up in a lovely and carefully polished package of Westerosi nobility.

Such things, she knew, were expected of a daughter of a High Lord—at least in the public arena. The coronation feast of the newly crowned King and Queen of Seven Kingdoms was a very public arena. So she did her duty, greeting guests as the sister of the King and the only remaining female Stark, smiling warmly at the lords, ladies and the knights who had gathered in the Great hall of the Red Keep to toast the new Queen.

She watched her new good sister, Her Royal Grace Queen Daenerys, glide effortlessly through the tables. At least the Targareyan Queen made it seem effortless, though she had worked as brutally hard as her on this event.

She saw her brother-cousin —so wonderfully handsome and steady—and her young brother Rickon who was mooning over his betroth _Shireen_  Baratheon all evening, mingle uncomfortably with the crowd. A crowd that included nobility, gentry and all the very wealthy people in Westeros as well as some of the Queen’s Dothraki horde.

Suddenly, the doors to the great hall were opened with a blast of wind. Three figures walked in, with a handful of strangely clad guards behind them and the first glance of clearly the youngest of them, awoken the young girl within Sansa.

Another set of Queen’s foreign friends, she said as she watch them with open curiosity.

Their well tanned golden skins and cloths hinted of the far Essos. The curious looks everyone in the hall, save Lord Varys aimed at them said as much.

They walked straight towards the high table, not waiting to be invited by the King or the Queen.

 As they did so, the announcer declared the presence of King Sharaman of Persia and his two sons. The hall had fallen in to silence though people stood up customary.

 Everyone in the hall had their mouths left hanging in the air. This was not a company they expected to be with tonight at all. The Queen, however, broke into a huge smile and walked towards the elderly looking man in the front and he took her into a big hug.

 The man was only identifiable to Sansa by the crown that adorned the man's head, for she had never laid eyes on a foreign monarch before. The man had very kind, yet serious eyes, and a dark beard that was just beginning to show traces of gray.

“My lady, for once the rumors are true. You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman.” King Sharaman said in a fatherly voice.

 

 

 

Daenerys let out a small laugh, “Thank you my lord, for your compliment, but I dare say that you are yet to see the real beauties of Westeros.” Though she might have imagined it, Sansa thought the Queen glanced slightly at her when she said that.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sansa stood, waiting, bored out of her mind. She was waiting for someone to come and ‘escort’ her to the ball in which she was to spend the remainder of this miserable night. She wasn't too pleased at the idea of being in close quarters with her ex- husband or the Tyrells, they had never been the greatest of Stark friends and the resent incidents have stained the relationship more, but Jon and Rickon and Danny were going to be there, so she supposed she could suffer through. If the person who was supposed to take her there ever showed up.

"You Sansa Stark?" An arrogant self satisfied male voice reached her ears, breaking her train of thought. She looked up and blinked. A man, roughly her bother- cousin Jon’s age perhaps a little older, was stood there. Tall and muscular and lean and handsome, his body language screamed boredom. He looked over at her, a well worn look for annoyance gracing his features. "Well am I getting an answer or do I have to spend the rest of my night here?"

Sansa's eyes narrowed. "Yes I am Sansa Stark, but it’s _My Lady_ to you, _My Lord_ ,” she told him. The young man rolled his eyes.

"Is that honestly the best threat you can come up with? Because it's a little feeble," he spoke again in that regal, but arrogant tone. Sansa glared, then sighed.

"Who are you? Are you my escort?" She asked, thinking a name would be a handy thing to have, considering that this Essosi man was talking to her, and she didn't know who he was. Which lead to the wanting of a name.

" Dastan . Otherwise known as your escort." Sansa looked. Dastan frowned. "Now what?" he questioned.

"Where's Prince Tus? He was supposed to be the one to escort me." She asked, reasonably from her point of view. Dastan laughed, and gave a smirk,

"Well, it’s safe to say that I will be easier, and simpler to be with at a party than ‘Tus the ever so serious’ ” he told her, his tone sounding arrogant again. Sansa looked at him, her facial expression hovering between unimpressed and wonder.  He just called, Persia’s crown prince ‘Tus the ever so serious’. Who was this man?

Dastan gave another smirk, this one less pompous than the one before, and took pity. “Come on, I’m not deformed or largely sagged. There could be more bad choices than me." He held out his hand. "let’s go to the ball, my lady."

Sansa stared at the hand, slightly nervously. She had never felt like refusing a handsome lord’s hand before and, as a result, was not happy with herself. Unfortunately, Dastan did not give her time to debate on the pros and cons. He grabbed her hand, and Sansa Stark could feel herself moving forward.

"My Lord, Dastan!" Sansa yelled impatiently. "Dastan!"

"What?" he grumbled, irritated at her yelling.

She practically trembled at his rude voice. But years as _Alayne Stone had thought her how to cancel her emotions from being shown._

_Can you please tell me what this sudden ordeal of a Ball is about? IT is not to announce my engagement to prince Tus I hope.”_

His surprisingly aquamarine blue eyes darkened a few shades. "It's usually best not to explain at all. You’ll find out soon enough though."

"I beg your pardon."

“Cheer up My Lady; you’ll get to marry a _Prince_ one way or the other. That’s what you always wanted, I’ve been told.” He said the last sentence as if it was some kind of disease.

Dastan couldn’t help but smirk at the irony of what he just said. What would Sansa Stark do when she found out that the prince she was to marry is really a once-street-rat? It will be an outrage. The gods must be laughing.

“I do not believe I’m the same girl who always wanted to marry a Prince or a brave Knight anymore, My Lord.”

She linked her hands together just below the waist. He was marvelous to look at, sun tanned skin, broad shoulders a pleasing face. When he'd strode into the great hall that afternoon with other Persians she'd thought that fighting clothes suited him best.

“What did you mean when you said I’d get to marry ‘a _Prince_ one way or the other’, I am to marry prince Tus, am I not?”

 

"Do you not know what happen during that _small council_ thing last night?" Dastan asked worriedly.

She shook her head.

Dastan closed his eyes angrily as he thought of ways to take sweet revenge from his brothers. They had literary, thrown him in front of the jaws of a she wolf.Dastan narrowed his eyes at Lady Stark, "Why don't you ask your Queen? It was her idea after all.”

Sansa's eyes widened and she looked at him questioningly.

Dastan rolled his eyes, “Let’s go to the ball room, you’ll find out soon enough.”He urged her.

 

 

 

* * *

DASTAN'S POV

 

 

They entered the Queen's Ballroom together as expected. Glitter. Glamour. Fantasy. That was what a royal ball in a centuries-old palace provided for the selected few who were lucky enough to set foot in it. Elegance, sumptuousness, sophistication were what was expected when you brought together the rich, the famous and the royal.

For some reason he still hated to be in such functions. Some people enjoyed them, some people like his eldest brother Tus. There were gorgeous cloches and luxurious scents in the Ballroom, but for him, there was a sea of faces and a mental list of names too long for comfort.

 

His sat in the high table with their royal hosts and his family. His brother, the crown prince was by his side, dressed _in his most_ formal uniform of royal blue violet with a bejeweled winged lion embroidered on its front. His shoulder length hair was loose, and crowned with the thin circlet of silver with Amethyst stones of his office.

She Garsiv was wearing his trademark battle armor. It reminded people that he’s a soldier, a good one. His father was seated in the middle of the half circle, beside none other than stunning young Queen Daenerys who was flanked by her dark haired husband on the other side.

He didn’t know much about the man, or his wife other than the near impossible rumors he’d heard during his famous conquering quests and idle wonderings throughout the lands of Essos.

The Westerosi King turned his head and cold grey eyes met his sea blue ones. He could have sworn it on god that the man’s lips twisted in to a slight frown before he composed himself. Taking his master’s reaction as a cue, the great big white wolf that was sprawled at the base of the table near King Jon’s seat growled at him. What’s with Westerosi people and their animals?

 

May be the king has chosen this time to be the overprotective big brother. He was surprised to find himself positively pitting his brother Tus, as he might find himself at jaws of the white beast, before the end of the day. Or they'll both get to share the treat if his converation with hif father had not been the dreamland product of all the damn tankeds of ale he swallowed list night. 

His eyes strayed over the crowd again until it rested upon Sansa, the sensuous and quiet northern Lady.  All else seemed to melt away in that moment, for a moment. There was only her, her face framed by the fiery red curls, and her cobalt eyes so brilliant and blue. Dastan thought she looked like a goddess. Beautiful, powerful.

Remote.

She looked like a fairy tale tonight like the fairy tale he remembered from years before. There were diamonds in her hair (not pearls), winking fire against fire. She wore intertwined into the long red braid of her hair, subtle and effective, and at her throat _in_ three dripping tiers. Not the silent sensuality of Tamina but every bit a beautiful woman by the way most the men in the room reacted to her.

But while the fire danced around her, she’d chosen ice for her dress. A contrast in fashion? He wondered, or a statement that she had both? What the hell do you know about fashion Dastan? _None, obviously._

Dowe white. Stunning, cool, untouchable grey draped her. Slashing low at her throat to frame the diamonds there, rippling down her arms to meet the light and power on her fingers. Yards and yards of rich, smooth silk flowed down her until it nearly brushed the floor. Aloof, regal? So she was, Starks were known as the Kings of Winter before _Targaryen_ rule, and so she looked. But the fire breathed around her passionately.

Once a man had had such a woman, would he ever, could he ever, turn to another? Well Tus is and always has been an exception to that rule. He thought it comes from being told since birth that as the ‘Heir to the Persian Empire’ he’ll have to produce more heirs and marry more than five woman to be sure of it.

"Did you see her?" Tus mumbled so only Dastan and Garsiv could hear.

He’d only seen one woman, but he knew his brothers. "Who?"

"Lady Margaery Tyrell." Tus gave a low sound of approval. "Just fantastic."

Beside him Garsiv scanned the crowd and found her, but there wasn’t any approval. “You can’t be talking about the next Queen of Thorns, yes, that’s what they call her. That and  ‘Queen of three kings and mother of none’.

She wore an emerald green dress that was cut beautifully, even conservatively. Very formal, very elegant, and showcasing her very lovely breasts with its low and rounded neckline. The color said one thing, the style another. "She’s a child," Garsiv muttered.

But Dastan had found her too precocious and too intelligent a child.

“Did you know her Father offered her hand to our little brother here?”

“I thought Westerosi lords do not approve our ways of marriage.”

“Father refused of course, they say she is an intelligent, shrewd and political savvy, very much the protégé of her cunning grandmother.”

Dastan rolled his eyes but turned away from their conversation with a newly developed interest to scan the crowd gathered in the room.

 

The new Lord Lannister swept through the hall to sit beside Lady stark who suddenly busied herself in a deep conversation with the young women who sat beside her to avoid the kingslayer.  After a very brief exchange of words she dismissed him. On a long breath Sansa leaned back again in an unladylike slouch.

How could it be, he wondered, that he should look at all the people in the room in general, and see only her? How, meeting her eyes like this, could it be like looking deeper, deeper yet, into his life?

 

“Rare jewel, isn’t she?” Tus’s voice snapped him out of his trance.

“Wha…what?” he asked making an utter fool out of himself. Tus smirked, Dastan blushed realizing his mistake. He was supposed to be the one who asked his father’s consent on a marriage tie between the two, no four Houses in the first place. True, his father had not said anything about it yet. And even his ‘street rat’ intellect was enough to realize the king of Westeros would never let his beloved cousin become Persian Crown Prince’s _fourth_ wife.

He only knew about his proposal to the king and that one of the Persian princes may become his future brother in law. He was the only unmarried prince of the Trio, so it was only natural dear Jon assumed he’s to be the one who steal his ex-sister-cousin from him.

 

He’d had too much wine, felt too warm. And there were hours yet before he could lay down his head and drift into a deep slumber. The two week sail through the narrow sea had tired him down. Persians were born and bred in the desert not the sea. Though they didn’t fear the sea like those stupid Dothraki horse lords, they were not at home in the sea like the Iron Born either.

 

They all ignored the white elephant in the room for the best part of the ball. His father, being his father waited for the most precious time to drop the can of wildfire on everyone at present.

When he rose from his seat people took the cue and silenced, knowing the king was about to say something important. “My Queen I suppose it is time we announce the main reason of our visit to your loyal subjects.” The fierce dragon Queen shifted uncomfortably on her seat and shared a glance with her husband, who in turn aimed a death glare at Dastan.

“My beloved Lords, Ladies and Knights, as some of you might already know,” Her eyes turned briefly towards the bald fat man wearing long robes who sat next to Lord Tyrion on the council table when she said that. The man gave her a knowing smile.”That King Sharaman and I have known each other for a quite a long time. He was the first to welcome me and my brother to his household when we were first smuggled into exile as infants. He gave us protection for two years before Ser Willem realized it would be better if our whereabouts were unknown and that it cannot be accomplished by living with the royal family of Persia. But the time I spent with King Sharaman and his wife, Queen Chandra has always been one of the best times of my life. I have decided to bind my family with my second father’s with a bond deeper than friendship.  Sansa, my beloved husband’s little cousin, my good sister will marry King Sharaman’s son Prince—“

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

**_Sansa's POV_ **

 

 

 

They entered the Queen's Ballroom together as expected. Glitter. Glamour. Fantasy. That was what a royal ball in a centuries-old palace provided for the selected few who were lucky enough to set foot in it. Elegance, sumptuousness, sophistication were what was expected when you brought together the rich, the famous and the royal.

For some reason he still hated to be in such functions. Some people enjoyed them, some people like his eldest brother Tus. There were gorgeous cloches and luxurious scents in the Ballroom, but for him, there was a sea of faces and a mental list of names too long for comfort.

 

His sat in the high table with their royal hosts and his family. His brother, the crown prince was by his side, dressed _in his most_ formal uniform of royal blue violet with a bejeweled winged lion embroidered on its front. His shoulder length hair was loose, and crowned with the thin circlet of silver with Amethyst stones of his office.

 Garsiv was wearing his trademark battle armor. It reminded people that he’s a soldier, a good one. His father was seated in the middle of the half circle, beside none other than stunning young Queen Daenerys who was flanked by her dark haired husband on the other side.

He didn’t know much about the man, or his wife other than the near impossible rumors he’d heard during his famous conquering quests and idle wonderings throughout the lands of Essos.

The Westerosi King turned his head and cold grey eyes met his sea blue ones. He could have sworn it on god that the man’s lips twisted in to a slight frown before he composed himself. Taking his master’s reaction as a cue, the great big white wolf that was sprawled at the base of the table near King Jon’s seat growled at him. What’s with Westerosi people and their animals?

 

May be the king has chosen this time to be the overprotective big brother. He was surprised to find himself positively pitting his brother Tus, as he might find himself at jaws of the white beast, before the end of the day. Or maybe the King knew who’s going to marry his cousin. _Worst case scenario_ , either him or his brother will end up gutted like a bloody fish.

His eyes strayed over the crowd again until it rested upon Sansa, the sensuous and quiet northern Lady.  All else seemed to melt away in that moment, for a moment. There was only her, her face framed by the fiery red curls, and her cobalt eyes so brilliant and blue. Dastan thought she looked like a goddess. Beautiful, powerful.

Remote.

She looked like a fairy tale tonight like the fairy tale he remembered from months before. There were diamonds in her hair (not pearls), winking fire against fire. She wore intertwined into the long red braid of her hair, subtle and effective, and at her throat _in_ three dripping tiers. Not the silent sensuality of Tamina but every bit a beautiful woman by the way most the men in the room reacted to her.

But while the fire danced around her, she’d chosen ice for her dress. A contrast in fashion? He wondered, or a statement that she had both? What the hell do you know about fashion Dastan? _None, obviously._

Doe white. Stunning, cool, untouchable grey draped her. Slashing low at her throat to frame the diamonds there, rippling down her arms to meet the light and power on her fingers. Yards and yards of rich, smooth silk flowed down her until it nearly brushed the floor. Aloof, regal? So she was, Starks were known as the Kings of Winter before _Targaryen_ rule, and so she looked. But the fire breathed around her passionately.

Once a man had had such a woman, would he ever, could he ever, turn to another? Well Tus is and always has been an exception to that rule. He thought it comes from being told since birth that as the ‘Heir to the Persian Empire’ he’ll have to produce more heirs and marry more than five woman to be sure of it.

"Did you see her?" Tus mumbled so only Dastan and Garsiv could hear.

He’d only seen one woman, but he knew his brothers. "Who?"

"Lady Margaery Tyrell." Tus gave a low sound of approval. "Just fantastic."

Beside him Garsiv scanned the crowd and found her, but there wasn’t any approval. “You can’t be talking about the next Queen of Thorns, yes, that’s what they call her. That and  ‘Queen of three kings and mother of none’.

She wore an emerald green dress that was cut beautifully, even conservatively. Very formal, very elegant, and showcasing her very lovely breasts with its low and rounded neckline. The color said one thing, the style another. "She’s a child," Garsiv muttered.

But Dastan had found her too precocious and too intelligent a child.

“Did you know her Father offered her hand to our little brother here?”

“I thought Westerosi lords do not approve our ways of marriage.”

“Father refused of course, they say she is an intelligent, shrewd and political savvy, very much the protégé of her cunning grandmother.”

Dastan rolled his eyes but turned away from their conversation with a newly developed interest to scan the crowd gathered in the room.

 

The new Lord Lannister swept through the hall to sit beside Lady stark who suddenly busied herself in a deep conversation with the young women who sat beside her to avoid the kingslayer.  After a very brief exchange of words she dismissed him. On a long breath Sansa leaned back again in an unladylike slouch.

How could it be, he wondered, that he should look at all the people in the room in general, and see only her? How, meeting her eyes like this, could it be like looking deeper, deeper yet, into his life?

 

“Rare jewel, isn’t she?” Tus’s voice snapped him out of his trance.

“Wha…what?” he asked making an utter fool out of himself. Tus smirked, Dastan blushed realizing his mistake. Tus had no idea of the coversation Dastan had with their father last night. To him, he was supposed to be the one who asked his father’s consent on a marriage tie between the two, no four Houses. True, his father had not said anything about it yet. And even his ‘street rat’ intellect was enough to realize the king of Westeros would never let his beloved cousin become Persian Crown Prince’s _fourth_ wife.

He only knew about his proposal to the king and that one of the Persian princes may become his future brother in law. He was the only unmarried prince of the Trio, so it was only natural dear Jon assumed he’s to be the one who steal his ex-sister-cousin from him.

 

He’d had too much wine, felt too warm. And there were hours yet before he could lay down his head and drift into a deep slumber. The two week sail through the narrow sea had tired him down. Persians were born and bred in the desert not the sea. Though they didn’t fear the sea like those stupid Dothraki horse lords, they were not at home in the sea like the Iron Born either.

 

They all ignored the white elephant in the room for the best part of the ball. His father, being his father waited for the most precious time to drop the can of wildfire on everyone at present.

When he rose from his seat people took the cue and silenced, knowing the king was about to say something important. “My Queen I suppose it is time we announce the main reason of our visit to your loyal subjects.” The fierce dragon Queen shifted uncomfortably on her seat and shared a glance with her husband, who in turn aimed a death glare at Dastan.

“My beloved Lords, Ladies and Knights, as some of you might already know,” Her eyes turned briefly towards the bald fat man wearing long robes who sat next to Lord Tyrion on the council table when she said that. The man gave her a knowing smile.”That King Sharaman and I have known each other for a quite a long time. He was the first to welcome me and my brother to his household when we were first smuggled into exile as infants. He gave us protection for three years before Ser Willem realized it would be better, if our whereabouts were unknown and that it cannot be accomplished by living with the royal family of Persia. But the time I spent with King Sharaman and his wife, Queen Chandra has always been one of the best times of my life. I have decided to bind my family with my second father’s with a bond deeper than friendship.  Sansa, my beloved husband’s little cousin, my good sister will marry King Sharaman’s son, Prince Dastan.“

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

_ **SANSA'S POV** _

 

 

I have decided to bind my family with my second father’s with a bond deeper than friendship.  Sansa, my beloved husband’s little cousin, my good sister will marry King Sharaman’s son, Prince Dastan.“

Her heart stopped beating. Her breath caught in her chest. For one panicked moment, she thought she would drop dead just by keeping her head up.

Sansa turned around to see if she was the only one who heard that. People were cheering and clapping their hands like mad. Well, let’s just say Northerners and Tallys and Tyrells did. _Prince_ Dastan, that iterating arrogant little prick is a prince. What a joke.    

Sansa's eyes narrowed before she turned to find Dastan smirking and looking discontented.

What does he have to lose? An egotistical womanizer, Sansa reminded herself. That had been her conclusion after that small encounter with him. Perhaps he was a bit bored and entertained thoughts of distracting himself with what he thought as a vulnerable and accessible woman.

He might have a gentle heart under that egoistic, arrogant demeanor, and she knew not all men are like Joffrey _. No, I take it back; he can’t be anything like that sadistic monster, that poor excuse for a prince._ But she’d been the bastard daughter of Little Finger, and as Alayne Stone she had had access to listen to various stories of his Whores about their clients. No she did not want a man-whore as a husband.

King or not, Jon’s going to hear a mouthful from her for this. She desperately tried to gulp the bile rising in her stomach.

“Well, congratulations are in order.” Lady Frey said with her sickly sweet smile.

Something wanted to hiss out between her teeth, but she swallowed it. Diplomacy, even when it wasn't deserved, was part of her training. She put on her best poker face and accepted their well wishes.

She only wished the evening would end. She wanted her bed, she wanted sleep. She wanted to peel off the silk and heavy velvet and slide blissfully—for one night—into the dark.

But she had to make a show of eating, despite her lack of appetite. She had to make a pretense, at least, of paying attention to conversations even though her very soul wanted to scream and shout.

She’d had too much wine, felt too warm.

And there were hours yet before she could lay down her head.

Of course, she had to stop, to smile, and to drink every time one of the knights was moved to toast her on her impending marriage with the Persian Prince. At the rate they were moving, her head would likely spin right off the pillow.

It was with huge relief that when the Queen announce the dancing could begin.

 

She had to stand for the first set, as it was expected of her as a close relative of the royal family. Prince Tus led out a triumphant looking Margaery Tyrell. His younger brother chose Princess Arianne of Drone. Jon swept Queen Daenerys onto the floor. And so the ball began.

 

And found she felt better for moving, for the music.

 _He_ didn’t dance, of course, but only sat. Like a dyspeptic king, she thought, foolishly irritated because she’d _wanted_ to dance with him. His hands on her hands, his eyes on her eyes. But there he sat, gazing down on the masses and sipping his wine. Attractive, yes, she decided, it sure had crushed the hearts of a number of young ladies in the ball room when the announcement was made. He was attractive, in that just on the edge of rough, just on the edge of sleek sort of way. Like a big predatory cat, she mused, who could swagger away or pounce as the mood struck.

 

She spun with Quentyn Martell, bowed to her uncle, clasped hands with a Clegane. And when she looked back again, Dastan was gone.

So she would put him out of her mind, as he’d so obviously put her out of his.

 

* * *

 

 

 

** _DASTAN'S POV_ **

** **

** **

He wanted air, and more, he wanted the dark. The dark was his time. He went up, and out, where the dark was thick and the music from the ball room only a silvery echo. Clouds had rolled over the moon, and the stars were crusted by them. Snow would come before morning; he could already smell it in the air. He didn’t like snow or the cold as much as he didn’t like the situation he’d found himself in.

Below, there were torches to light the courtyards, and guards stood at post at the gates, on the walls. He heard one of them cough and spit, and the quick flap of the red and black flags overhead in a sudden kick of wind.

He felt a blast of frigid air. Smiling easily, he turned to face King Jon Targaryen. This was his first barrier, the dragon at the gate.

“Your Majesty.”

The king didn’t look offended, no, but his eyes turned edgy, the grey in them deepening. “If you hurt her, I swear on the old gods and the new, the drowned god, lord of light and even your god of time, I’ll hunt you down.”

“I have no intention of doing such a thing, Your Majesty.”

Their look held, each measuring the other. “Sansa has her duty, I mine and you yours.”

A lack of choice. Hadn’t _she_ said that was what _she_ resented most? There was more to being royal than the pretty silver crown and glossy pearls. He drew in a long breath. _Damn don’t think of her, Tamina’s no longer yours to think about._ He might sympathize, Sansa, but it wouldn’t stop him from taking this choice from her. He barely knew the girl. His first allegiance will be to his father and to the empire no matter what.

 

“You’ve been with her this evening?"

"Yes."

“What do you think of her?”

“She’s gone through a lot, but I get the feeling she’d stubborn enough to refuse me if I offered her a hand to share that burden.” 

 

"It’s difficult." The king broke off, struggling with some emotion. Anger, sorrow, frustration?  Dastan couldn’t be quite sure. "It’s difficult," he repeated, but with perfect calm, "to stand back and do little, give little when you know your sister has gone through hell all alone and back. I wanted to kill every Lannister in Westeros for what they did to my sis…cousin, I still do.”

 

He knew when to reject protocol and when to bow to it. “Not a wise thing to do Your Majesty, the other lords might take it as a smoke signal to rebel.”  

“Tell me this, can I trust you?”

 

"’Trust’ might be a bit premature. Consider me useful, at the moment." He heard the annoyance in his voice and carefully smoothed it over. After the incidents last year, It highly irate him when someone distrusted him for all the wrong reasons.  But he was somewhat happy by the fact that the king was actually talking to him. Not a cold and discrete ‘a king to a foreign prince’ conversation but a real heart to heart, mind to mind. 

  King Jon nodded. He seemed to like the clean, emotionless response.

He kept his voice low. Spoke slowly while looking directly into the king’s eyes. “Your Majesty, are you aware of why I wasn’t there at Palace of Nisaaf while your Queen wife was there?”

 

The King shook his head.

“I wasn’t born in a palace. Until I was nine years old, I grew up in the slums of Nasaf, a street rat with no family. The king took me in. He gave me a family, a purpose, a chance to start my life again. But l’ve never forgotten what my life was like before I become a Prince of Persia, Your Majesty. What I’m trying to say is that, I’m not the spoiled prince you think I am.”

He waited for some sign, some gesture or expression. The King gave him nothing more than what seemed to be polite interest. He could respect a man who could keep his thoughts to himself.

King Jon gestured his hand for him to shake, a rare simile on his face.” I’m more a Stark than Targareyan, so I can be satisfied with an honest man if nothing else.”

Dastan inwardly realized a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “And stop calling me Your Majesty all the time. I have enough subjects to call me that. We are going to be good cousins soon.” Jon added.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

**_ SANSA'S POV _ **

 

 

Sansa was given free run of the Red Keep and the Kings landing. She had only to ask and her bath would be drawn or her bed turned down. As a guest and a relative of the Royal Family, she was afforded every amenity the palace could offer.

And as a relative of the Royal Family, she was afforded her own guards.

Sansa considered them only a slight nuisance. It was a simple enough matter for someone of her talents to make them think she was tucked safely away in her rooms while she was somewhere else entirely. She had done such things as Alayne Stone countless times. However, the fact that she was being watched made it difficult to set up a meeting with her to- be-husband on the outside. It was only a week before their wedding. But the Persian customs required they do not to see each other for seven days before the wedding ceremony.

 

 

In a week, she thought, she’d be married to the ‘Lion of Persia’ as they called him. In one week she would well and truly begin what had been waiting in the stocks for so long. She’d be shipped off to Essos to start her life as a Princess of Persia, living in the far away Kingdom, Dastan’s father had deemed to be his to rule. She had plenty to do to keep her busy in the meantime.

She wondered what it would be like if she was betrothed to a northerner. Her heart wailed at the thought of not seeing her childhood home for a long time. Maybe forever. The naive girl she once was would have done anything to escape the vast wasteland her family was so proud of. Now she knew the truth. Starks never do well in the south or King’s landing. With her marriage she’ll be sent far away from King’s Landing as well as north. But was she stepping in to the jaws of a blue lion from the grasp of a mad golden lion hiding under the hide of a stag?

Though they were both princes by title, her short encounter with him had assured Sansa that Dastan would at least be gentle. He did have the same arrogant authoritative demeanor Joffrey had possessed. But it didn’t scare her, to tell the truth it lured her in.

 

She liked watching him move, Sansa admitted. He always put her in mind of something exotic—beautiful in its way, and just as lethal. There was his posture, and his movements. Dastan always seemed at his ease, and walked with a near animal fluidity.

 

 His shoulder length hair was as dark as onyx, and as thick, with that careless windblown effect a man might get if he stood on the point of a ship. His mouth was not full but unashamedly sensual, the nose a bit aristocratic in the rugged face. His eyes were a deep, deep sea blue under dark brows. They weren't friendly, Sansa decided, not even curious. They were always simply annoyed.

 

She heard him before she saw him, and sensed him before that. Sansa very nearly turned around to go back the way to her chambers. It was just another annoyance to come across the same man she’d been thinking of. She turned and he was too close, her body smashed into his. After a moment too long to be called a result of bewilderment, she tried to draw back. But he yanked her hand and drew her back to him. “You better have a very good reason for this midnight session My Lady. I treasure a good night’s sleep very much.” Dastan’s voice was so deep with thick Eastern accent.

 

He drew back and leaned against the wall. Within his tall frame was a muscular body, broad at the shoulders and slim at the waist. Adorning this attractive structure were burgundy sashes that hung from his neck over the whites and blacks of his robe. A belt of leather encased his waist where a long wicked sword rested beneath its' dark sheath. Sansa raised hereyes from his weapon up to his captivating face.

“Is it normal for men of Persia to court a woman, dressed for battle? Or is it just you because you take me as a possible threat?” He stared at her for another minute, then with something like a grunt nudged her through the vacant hallway. He led her out into the silent passageway where torches lined the length in brackets that cast strange shadows on the brick walls. As they approached the steps leading down the underground level of Red Keep, she knew where they were going.

"Where do we go from here?" She asked and searched unsuccessfully for a way out. "You are not going to carry me down, are you?"

“Are you afraid of darkness, Lady Sansa? I won’t let little bugs bite you.” He said with that signature smirk. “ _If_ you are afraid of them, Waite till you see desert scorpions.”   

"I know you think of me as a necessity burden, one you must carry on behalf of your father. And you are the kind of man who’d probably kick a sick dog if he got in your way," she added evenly. "But I'm not going back in to my chambers tonight without  having my answers , Your Highness, and I wouldn't advise trying to toss me away, either."

“Fine,” he said raising his hands in defeat. “But we are going down there. It’s not good for you to be seen with me at this hour alone, the day before our wedding.”

She didn’t have the heart to tell him about Ser Varys little birds who might be listening to their conversation right at this moment.

“Tell me about Nasaf?” She asked him as soon as they entered the huge hall beneath Red Keep which previously housed the huge dragon skulls.

"It is someting you should see for yourself.'

 Leaving that subject for another time, she asked question that has been crawling in her mind since the announcement of their engagement. “My prince, are you going to force me to convert into your religion after…our marriage?” Do they even have a religion? Sansa had heard the stories of how the Dothraki horse lords treated their wives.  If it was an epitome of how things happen in East, she’d rather end her life than becoming a political pawn in a marriage of alliance again.

“I’m not a very religious person My Lady; you keep the old gods of your northern ancestors I assume.” She nodded, not very comfortable to be in close proximity with him.

“Then you are free keep them as long as you want.” She gaped at him. The statement itself was odd enough, but to hear him deliver it in a tone that was obviously carefree was baffling.

“And,” She started to go for next question, but Dastan silenced with a hand on her mouth.

 _“Don’t say anything, I heard some noise.”_ She struggled to tell him that it might be one of Lord Varys’ little birds, but his grip on her face was too tight. _“I think you should go back to your chambers my lady.”_

* * *

They came to her room early next day morning. The three Persian women made her bathe in scented water. Had her change in to a sneer gown of white silk over her small cloths and combed her red hair into a one long braid. Then they took her to the auxiliary suit of her chambers where another set of women were waiting for their arrival.

A motherly looking crone come forward and took her hands in hers. “May the Lord Zuvan bless you my lady," The woman said studying her closely."so beautiful. The moon pales before your beauty.”

The women said with a soft smile. “I raised Prince Dastan since he was a small child, so I’ll be doing his mother’s duties during marriage ceremony in her stead. Since your mother……”

“My lady,” Sansa snapped in. “I understand.” She knew she was being rude to this kind old lady. But the wounds in her heart were too deep. She wanted her mother to be here, her actual mother, whom she wasn’t sure would be happy or not about her marrying a Persian.

“Of course. Come My Lady, we are going to make you the most beautiful bride the Westeros has ever seen.”

They polished her nails, gave her a ceremonial bath of milk, and then smeared her body with turmeric paste , which they promised would give her skin a golden glow.

While doing all those things to her, Kalmia, the kind old women who welcomed her explained everything to Sansa. Persian Wedding customs and rituals which were so much different from their own and their meanings.

“The marriage is held at night so the bride and groom can gaze at the Pole Star and wish to remain steadfast in their lives like the stars.” Kalmia said when Sansa asked her why the marriage is going to be celebrated at night time. "In our part of the world marriage is a bond that extends beyond one’s life. During the ceremony the bride and bridegroom are considered the embodiment of Lord Zuvan and his wife Tara, the goddess of prosperity and wisdom. The bride first marries the gods and then placed under the bridegroom’s protection as a gift from the gods.”

“Please Lady Kalmia, if the rituals are over, please leave me alone.” Sansa said softly. They didn’t say anything, collected their things and left her to sulk in the empty room.

Picking up a brush, she began to groom her hair, and to murmur a song her mother had sang to her when she was a little girl. With hot tears in her eyes.

 


End file.
